spaces in between
by Phantom Thief Oryx
Summary: He's chasing ghosts, reaching for something intangible just beyond his grasp. — Brendan/Steven


**a/n**;; this is an older fic, originally written for a charity thing on lj. decided to upload it here with some edits.

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He lies amid the pastel flowers of Floaroma Town, surrounded by the heady, perfumed scent of pollen and the quiet buzzing of the Combee. He stares up at the sky, following the meandering path of one lone cloud with his eyes, and thinks back to his childhood. He remembers a time before Hoenn, when they had struggled to make ends meet in the sprawling city of Goldenrod – remembers the dead-end job that kept his father away from home far too long, the shouting matches over already-meager expenses, the cracks in the bleach-white plaster of their apartment walls, the view of a seedy bar from his bedroom window.

But most of all, he remembers waiting.

Once a week (or sometimes even twice), his mother would go in for a job interview. The offices she took him to were always stiff and sterile – tightly woven carpet beneath his feet, fluorescent lights overhead, the smell of sanitizer and plastic heavy in the air.

"Stay here and be good," his mother would say. "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

She would sit him in one of the hard-backed chairs and smile at him in that sad way of hers, and then she would walk away, down the hallway and out of sight.

"May I have a magazine to read, please?" he would ask the receptionist, usually an older woman with garish makeup painted on her face, and she would peer down at him over the edge of the desk and put a hand to her heart.

"Bless your little soul," she would say. "What a well-mannered boy! Of course you can have a magazine… How about this one? It's got lots of pretty pictures!"

"Thank you very much," he would say. He would return to his uncomfortable chair and swing his legs and examine each page of the magazine meticulously (in his memories, it is always the same magazine, though he supposes there were others). The pages were glossy beneath his fingertips, depicting beautiful scenic vistas – tropical islands and ancient forests and swirling desert sands. He remembers pages alive with Pokemon of all kinds, remembers his childish desire to capture every single one.

And then his mother would emerge from the back rooms, her lips pressed together in a tight line ("you seem like a good addition to any workforce, but we're just not hiring right now, you understand"), and she would return his magazine to the receptionist with a tired sigh.

"You know, Brendan," she would say to him as they walked home hand in hand, "someday you'll get a Pokemon of your own. And then you'll be able to have adventures and travel all over the world."

_All over the world. _Away from the dingy city skyline, with the sunset obscured by skyscrapers. Away from the alleys where degenerates lurked in the shadows and mangy Raticate fed off refuse. _Escape from this place_, his mother was telling him, and what were Pokemon but an end to a means?

Brendan sits up suddenly, disturbing a flock of Starly in a nearby tree, and gazes incredulously at the gently swaying flowers that surround him.

"Here I am," he says, to no one in particular. "I'm away from Goldenrod – as far away as I could get."

But he's not six years old anymore. Gorgeous landscapes can only appease him for so long.

Something is missing.

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It's nearly three in the morning, and Brendan can't sleep. Pokemon Center beds aren't known for their comfort, after all, and on this night he finds himself bothered by the simplest of things. The air in this room is too stagnant. The faint sound of Kricketots chirping thrums in his ears, and he tosses and turns restlessly, trying to avoid it.

_Clear your mind,_ he tells himself, closing his tired eyes and taking a deep breath. _Let go of all thoughts. Blank slate. Tabula rasa._

But then he remembers who first introduced him to that phrase, and all hope of sleep is lost.

On the table across the room, the screen of his PokeNav suddenly lights up, and Brendan nearly falls out of bed as he hurries to grab it. No one in Sinnoh would try to contact him at this time of night. It must be someone in Hoenn. His heart, embarrassingly enough, skips a beat as he flips the screen open. Could it be…?

_FROM: WALLACE_

His nervous excitement dies in his throat, smile fading before it can reach his lips. It's not him. Of course not. Why would it be? Feeling more than a little ridiculous at his own naïve optimism, Brendan skims the message quickly.

_Brendan, how are you? I do hope you've been having a good time in Sinnoh – Hoenn has been dreadfully dull since you left. ;) I was wondering if perhaps you might stop by Ever Grande some time soon, maybe for a lunch date at the café? I've been so bored lately that I've been calling up all my old friends, simply begging them to drop by and visit. Hope to see you soon! Wallace_

A moment later, Brendan is stuffing his belongings into his pack haphazardly and securing the Pokeballs on his belt. _It'll be nice to talk to Wallace,_ he thinks. _Catch up on the latest goings-on. Maybe I'll even see the rest of the Elite Four while I'm in Ever Grande._

(But in truth, he's been looking for a reason to go back home.)

.

"Why did you ask me to come here?"

Wallace raises an eyebrow, taking a small bite of the buttercream cake the waiter has just placed in front of him. "Cutting right to the chase, I see. Why don't you relax a little, Brendan? Order something! This place serves heavenly cappuccinos…"

"No thank you." Brendan's voice is clipped, and he immediately regrets taking such a tone. But despite how relieved he is to be back in Hoenn, something about Ever Grande Island is setting him on edge. The scenery is as beautiful as always – through the wall length windows is a tropical seascape of pearlescent sand, azure water, and endless blue sky. A lone fishing boat bobs lazily a little ways off shore, creating the perfect image of tranquility. And yet…

Wallace sighs. "You didn't have to come, you know. It was an invitation, not an order."

"No, I… I wanted to come."

At this, the Champion laughs. "Oh really? I suppose that's why you're eyeing the doors and windows like you're planning a quick getaway? Really, Brendan, you ought to lighten up. It's as if you expect me to pin you to the ground at any moment and force the Champion cloak on to your shoulders."

The boy's dark eyes narrow suspiciously. "That's… That's not why I'm here, is it? You're not trying to give me the title again, are you?"

"… No, Brendan," Wallace groans, rubbing his temples tiredly. "I am quite content being the Champion, despite the title being yours by right. You are just so…" He makes a complicated hand gesture of exasperation. "You are completely insufferable sometimes, you know that? I wish I knew what he sees in you…"

Brendan leans forward suddenly, nearly knocking over the vase of fake flowers. "You've heard from him?" It's more of a demand than a question.

Wallace hesitates, twirling a strand of turquoise hair between his fingers, and then shakes his head. "I was actually hoping… I was hoping that you might know something. I'm beginning to get a bit worried about him, to tell the truth. He's never in one place for long, of course, but he usually checks in with me every once in a while…"

Brendan sinks back into his chair slowly, the enthusiasm dying in his eyes. "Why would he contact me?" he mutters, and tries unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness from his words. "You're his closest friend – if he was in the position to call anyone, it would obviously be you."

But Wallace simply shakes his head. "Steven… took a great interest in you, Brendan. Whenever he dropped by for a visit, he always mentioned your name, always praised your skills and determination in battle. You… impressed him. I think the time he spent with you made him regret forfeiting the title, if only a little. I think you made him miss his days as a trainer."

The boy is silent for a moment, gazing out the window at the little red fishing boat and the calm, clear sea.

"So then… why?" he asks quietly. "Why did he leave without saying goodbye?"

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In the distance, grey clouds are gathering, occasionally illuminated by the bolts of brilliant lightning that scar the sky. But Brendan knows that the storm will never reach Mossdeep. In Mossdeep, it seems, the sun always shines, and the sky is always blue, and the temperature never wavers from a comfortable 80 degrees. It is a venerable utopia, a haven for those weary of life on the mainland, a place of comfort and relaxation. Once upon a time, he ran his fingertips across glossy photos of Mossdeep's bleached white beaches and shoal coves, its exotic wildlife and tropical flowers, anticipating the day he would explore the entire island. But now that he's here, the idea no longer holds any appeal.

Brendan glances up at the sleek white walls of the Space Center, perched atop the island's tallest hill, and feels his throat tighten.

There are too many memories in this place, both bad and good.

On the outskirts of town, near the edge of the northern cliff overlooking the sea, is a rather plain-looking house with clapboard siding and a small, overgrown flowerbox underneath the window. Brendan stands on the front porch, staring blankly at the door's chipped, faded paint, and raises his hand to knock.

The door swings open at the slightest touch, hinges creaking from disuse.

"_Steven!" he calls as he steps through the doorway. The house is silent and dark – each footstep echoes like a gunshot. Outside, waves break against the cliff in a soothing rhythm. Brendan peers into the first room he comes across, the triumphant smile slowly fading from his lips._

"… _Steven?"_

_There's a folded note addressed to him on the table, and he picks it up and reads it. And reads it again. And reads it again. By the fifth re-read, his hands are trembling ever so slightly, and the crumpled note drifts to the floor unceremoniously._

"_What the hell is this," he whispers._

_From behind the couch a gleaming, metallic creature emerges, its single eye swiveling towards him curiously. It hovers closer, hesitant, and nudges his arm like a lost little child._

"_Bel-dum. Bel." Its voice is hollow and tinny, changing pitch with every syllable like a self-tuning radio, and it seems eager to greet its new master._

_But Brendan knocks the Pokemon aside angrily, blinking back tears. "Get the hell away from me," he hisses. "I don't want you! I don't want… I don't want some goddamn consolation prize!"_

_He turns and – _

The house is exactly as he left it – still silent and shrouded in shadow. The note still lies on the floor of the sitting room, untouched. Dust is beginning to gather on every available surface, and Brendan draws a pattern of wavy lines with his fingers before brushing it all away (like the tide washing away footprints on the shore).

It's obvious that Steven hasn't been here – not since **then**. Brendan glances around one last time, taking in the patterned curtains and the antique armchair and the display case full of gemstones, lovingly labeled.

_It's strange_, he thinks, _for a place that feels so lived-in to be so empty._

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The sun is setting on the white stucco buildings and cobblestone streets of Sootopolis City by the time Brendan arrives. He returns his Flygon to its Pokeball and stretches his aching muscles, feeling strangely rejuvenated by the ocean air. Sootopolis is a mysterious place, he knows. The Cave of Origin altered the town long ago, spreading its crystalline roots beneath the very foundation, creating a microcosm of beauty and reawakening found nowhere else on Earth.

As he traverses the meandering streets, stopping now and again to peruse colorful market stalls, he is met with awed glances and hushed whispers. It takes him a moment to understand what they are whispering about. In Sinnoh he was a nobody – just another rebellious young teenager avoiding reality, off on a Pokemon journey to find himself. But here… Here he is a legend. The boy who helped save the world. The boy who turned down a life of glamour as Champion of the Hoenn League.

For the first time, Brendan begins to wonder if he made the right choice after all.

The old man outside the Cave of Origin nods to him sagely as he walks past, and he returns the nod with as much dignity as he can muster. (He may not be the Champion, but he can still act like it.) An almost magnetic force has pulled him to this nostalgic place, like a string tied around his heart, tugging him in the right direction.

It's pleasantly cool in the cave – the air is crisp, oddly enough, and moisture drips from the smooth, gleaming walls. As he goes down, down, down to the place of Origin, the semi-darkness gives way to a phosphorescent glow, and mist begins to swirl around his ankles. Millions of crystals hang from the ceiling and litter the cavern floor like broken swords on a battlefield, giving off their subtle blue light, and Brendan is momentarily awed by the beauty of it.

Scattered at his feet are stones of all shapes and sizes, and he picks one up, enjoying its comfortable weight in his hand.

"_Do you know what that is?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_That, in your hand. Do you know what it is?"_

_Brendan's incredulous gaze travels from Steven to the object in his hand and back again. "It's a rock," he says._

_Steven's eyes crease around the edges as he smiles. "Yes and no," he says, and takes the rock from Brendan. Their hands brush for a moment – Steven's skin is calloused and warm, bronzed slightly from years travelling and excavating beneath the hot sun – and Brendan has to fight back a blush._

"_This," Steven continues, "is a geode." He reaches into his tool bag and removes a small hammer, then gives the rock a sharp tap in just the right spot. It comes apart evenly in his hands, revealing…_

_Crystals. Glittering, multifaceted crystals in every shade of purple grow on the inside of the hollowed-out rock, like treasure waiting to be unearthed. They catch the light of Steven's lantern and refract it, creating flickering prisms on the wall of the cave._

"_For you," Steven says, and presses part of the geode into Brendan's palm. The boy runs his fingers over the elegant, perfectly-cut edges of the crystals, eyes widening as he does so. Astounding, he thinks, the things nature can create._

"_This is why you love geology so much, isn't it?" he muses aloud. "Discovering beauty in unexpected places?"_

_Steven looks at him intently, lips parted, lantern flame reflected in his soft blue eyes. And then he laughs, as if to say "guilty as charged" – _

Brendan fumbles for his Swampert's Pokeball, ready to have the creature break the geode open with its brute strength. But his hand is clenched too tightly, and the rock begins to crumble in his grasp – not a geode at all, just an ordinary piece of shale. He stares at the dark fragments in his hand for many a moment, expressionless, and then crushes them to dust.

He shouldn't have come back to this place.

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The Lilycove Museum hasn't changed much. The art may be different, old displays replaced with the new, but it still looks the same to him, all overdramatic sculptures and indescribable "contemporary" paintings. He pays the entrance fee and wanders aimlessly through each wing, frowning more deeply with each piece he passes.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?" he mutters, tilting his head to the side. The canvas is a jumble of mismatching colors and shapes, and for a moment he thinks he can make out the vague shape of a Wigglytuff… Or is it an Ampharos? Or maybe a Mawile? Sighing incredulously, he moves on to the next painting.

"_I don't know," Steven says. He's tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I think it's rather nice."_

"… _I really hope you're joking."_

_The silver-haired man puts on his best expression of mock seriousness. "I never joke, Brendan," he deadpans, but his lips quirk into a smile a moment later. "Actually, though, if you squint at just the right angle, it looks like something semi-recognizable. Not sure what, but… Definitely semi-recognizable."_

_Brendan lowers himself on to a nearby bench, laughing quietly. "Seriously, why are we here again? This place is ridiculous."_

"_I wanted you to experience the magnificence that is post-modern artwork. Obviously."_

"_Huh. Never took you to be such a connoisseur of the arts. Next thing you know you'll be writing angsty short stories and attending dimly lit coffee house poetry readings."_

_Steven sits down next to him on the bench, grinning wryly. "You never know – perhaps I already do. I'm a sensitive soul, you see, and a man of many talents."_

"_Ah yes. Pokemon battling, poetry writing, and rock collecting. A triple threat if I've ever seen one."_

"_I prefer the term 'stone-getter' to 'rock collector', thank you very much."_

_Brendan rolls his eyes and – _

He leaves the museum with his hands in his pockets and a heavy heart.

It's midday in Lilycove, and the city is bustling with activity – teenagers enjoying a day at the beach, families with wide-eyed children sightseeing, locals shopping and chatting on the streets. But Brendan pushes past them without a glance.

He's beginning to feel like he's chasing ghosts, searching for something intangible just beyond his reach. He's beginning to feel like this is all a ruse, a fool's errand, because who knows if Steven's even in Hoenn anymore? Who knows what darkened cave or jagged mountaintop he's exploring at this very moment? Steven's not the type to cling to old memories (but then again, Brendan thinks, he never said much about himself).

He glances up and finds himself on the edge of town, where the cliffside overlooks the tide pools below. If he squints hard enough, he can make out the shapes of Krabby and Remoraid darting in between barnacles and sea anemones.

Brendan leans against the railing and gazes back towards the city one last time, ready to move on with his seemingly hopeless search. But something – someone – catches his eye. A man with silver hair, a dark suit, and a confident stride.

His breath falters, caught in his throat, and without even noticing it he's running towards the man. It can't be. It honestly cannot be this damn easy, after all he's been through. But he can't help but hope all the same, hope that maybe, just maybe, Steven's still within grasp… With a trembling hand he reaches out, touches the man's arm, and –

"Can I help you, my boy?"

"… No, sir. Sorry for bothering you. I… I thought you were someone else."

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The trees in the old woman's orchard are bent and gnarled, stunted by the rocky earth and the dry, dusty air. But the berries hanging from their branches are perfect all the same – hardy crops of Chesto, Rawst and Sitrus, Figy, Lum and Nomel. The woman, in turn, resembles her trees, as her face is lined like old bark and her back is hunched from years of strain. But she is smiling as she presides over her orchard. This is her life, all eighty-some years of it, and she is proud.

"Have you seen a man come through here – "

"Can't see too well, sonny," she interrupts, reaching up with twisted fingers to inspect a single pale blue Rawst. "I'm afraid my old eyes aren't suited to much other than berries these days. I don't hardly pay attention to people, much less some stranger come wanderin' through these parts. Most people are nothin' but trouble. No offense meant, o' course."

"None taken," Brendan mutters, slumping against the fence with a sigh. Not a single soul in Fallarbor Town has seen hide or hair of Steven, not even Doctor Cozmo, and Brendan can feel the trail growing steadily colder the farther he goes. Maybe he should call it quits while he's ahead, go home to Littleroot and spare himself the added torture. Maybe he should –

"Well wouldja look at that," the old woman says, staring up at the sky with her faded eyes. "The ash hardly ever blows this way."

Like delicate grey snow, a mote of ash descends and settles on Brendan's hand, a drop of muted darkness against his skin. Soon enough, a light flurry has begun, and the tops of the trees are covered in a fine leaden powder. Through the ash caught in his eyelashes he sees the old woman grinning toothlessly.

"It's a sign!" she exclaims. "A sign from the spirits! The winds are with you now, my boy!"

His eyes slowly focus on the smudge of ash on his hand.

"_You know, the natives around these parts use volcanic ash to create gorgeous hand-blown glasswork – I happen to have a few choice pieces on display back home. Oh, and see that rock formation over there? That was caused by a slow buildup of ash over hundreds of years, as well as heat under the mantle and significant wind erosion. Truly magnificent. And over there… Brendan? Are you tuning me out again?"_

"_No, no, of course not. By all means, continue." An exaggerated sweep of the hand._

"… _Your sarcasm saddens me, Brendan. Seriously, you young people have no appreciation for the beauty of geological anomalies – " _

Brendan smiles back at the old woman, and wishes he could believe so easily.

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There is a saying: "When the sun goes down in Slateport, the whole city comes to life."

Brendan thinks that this is perhaps the most accurate saying he's ever heard. Gone is the Slateport Market, where artisans from the countryside come to sell their handmade wares. Gone are the inner-tube wielding children ready for a day at the beach, the haggard parents hauling umbrellas and coolers, the signs advertising ice cream shops and painted seashells. Instead, the night is illuminated in shades of neon – a bar on one corner, a dance club on the next, all with Technicolor displays that attract people like moths. The women are suddenly younger, their lips and eyes painted brilliant colors, and the men are suddenly friendlier, offering high fives to every "bro" they pass on the streets.

"Hey sweetheart," a woman calls out to him. Gold bangles hang from her wrists, and her long, dark hair falls in beaded braids down her back. "How about a tattoo? Y'know, to commemorate your trip to Slateport, the City of Opportunity!"

He stares at her coyly smiling face, slightly affronted. "What? I, uh… No thank you." He turns to walk away, but she catches his hand.

"I said, I don't want a tattoo," he hisses. "I'm not even of legal age for that, thank you very much."

"Oh no, it's alright, honey," she says, still clinging to him, and he tries in vain to pull away. "I understand. I just wanna read your palm, alright?"

"Read… my palm?"

"You betcha. I haven't done it in a while, so I need some practice. Bear with me, okay?" She flips his hand over and begins studying it, mapping out the lines with surprisingly severe eyes. Brendan fidgets uncomfortably as her fingers trace the patterns of his palm, and then she glances up at him with a clandestine grin.

"Seems like you're searching for someone," she says.

Brendan is taken aback for a moment, but quickly regains his composure. "Yeah, and?" He sneers at her, derisive and disbelieving. "Tell me something I don't know."

"I think," the woman muses aloud, "you should go back to the beginning."

This time, her words truly give him pause. "Ex… Excuse me?"

"Hey, your palm can only tell me so much, okay? All I know is that if you want to find this person, you've gotta go back to where it all started. Good luck, sweetheart." The woman gives him one last, fond smile, then turns on her heel and walks away.

"Wait!" he shouts, but she's already gone, vanished into the crowd.

Later he sits on the shore, away from the clamor and tumult of downtown Slateport, and watches the pitch black water roll in and out, in and out. He thinks about what the woman said. _It was probably a hoax_, he tells himself. _She probably just made it up on the spot._

But there's no denying that he's running out of options. What does he stand to lose, if he goes back to the beginning? A little more heartbreak won't kill him – he's been through enough already.

Brendan stares out across the ocean and thinks of where it all began, in a tiny tropical cavern with a letter in hand.

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_There's a flickering orange light at the end of the tunnel, and he breathes a sigh of relief before breaking into a run. The steady drip of water into stagnant puddles is setting his teeth on edge, and the darkness has been pressing down on him, suffocating, for the past hour. Seeing that lantern light is enough to assure him that no, he won't die alone in these godforsaken caves. There is someone else here with him, and they might just be the person he's looking for._

_The man turns, surprised, when he hears Brendan's footsteps behind him. He's young, probably in his mid-twenties, and handsome in an effortless kind of way. His silver hair is messy, his shirt sleeves rolled up hastily, his face smudged with dirt, but there's a slight smile playing on his lips that transcends all of this, and – _

"Ah, Brendan," Steven says, as if it's been days instead of a year and a half since they last saw each other. "I was wondering when you would show up."

Brendan stares at him, uncomprehending.

"Here, hold this for a moment, will you?" Steven hands him a dirt-laden trowel, then sets to work chipping away at a chunk of rock with a pick. A few minutes later and a gorgeous blue gemstone emerges from the rock, shimmering delicately in the lantern light.

"Water Stone," the silver-haired man says, surveying it with a critical eye. "They've been in high demand lately, you know."

He puts it in his pack and stands up, stretching out his back. He reaches over to take the trowel from Brendan, but it slips through the boy's fingers and falls to the ground with and unceremonious clang.

"What the fuck?" Brendan whispers. His blood is pounding in his ears. He can hear his voice shaking, but it sounds strangely distant. His fists are clenched, fingernails digging into his palms, but the pain feels like someone else's. "What the fuck is this?"

Steven sighs; steps back and looks at him with sad eyes. "I'm sorry, Brendan," he says. "Really, I am. I know you're probably very irritated with me, but… Just know that it was for the best."

"'It was for the best'?" Brendan echoes the words dispassionately. He can feel something then, pulsing beneath his skin, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. It's an anger that he's never experienced before – an anger that clouds his vision and presses down upon his chest and _hurts_, physically, like someone's stabbed him through the heart.

"_It was for the best?_" he seethes. "For you, maybe! But what about me!? I… I thought we were going to travel together, Steven. You always talked about Sinnoh, and I assumed, like a fucking idiot, that we would… God! What the _hell_ was I supposed to do when I went to your house and found you gone? Not even an actual goodbye! Just a lousy note and a Pokemon from your collection… You think that made me happy? You think that's what I wanted from you – some help completing my _Pokedex_!? Fuck you! You know what you are? You're a goddamn coward!"

Brendan's ragged breathing is all that can be heard for a long, tense moment. Suddenly, Steven laughs – a bitter, weary sound that reverberates eerily through the cavern.

"You're right," he says. "I am a coward. I've always been running away – from my father, when I was young. From the Championship, even though it was the one thing I'd always wanted. And… from you. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing. You're still a child, Brendan! You – "

"I'm not."

"… What?"

"I am not a child. I know what I want, moreso than you do, at the very least. And if you keep running away, I'm just going to keep chasing you."

Brendan steps forward and punches him square in the jaw.

"That's for all the shit you've put me through," he says matter-of-factly, as the silver-haired man touches his face in shock. Before he can say a word, Brendan quickly closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Steven's waist. His fingers curl into the dusty fabric of Steven's shirt, and he breathes in the familiar scent of earth and metal.

"But just so we're clear… The next time you run away, I'm coming with you."

.

.

.

"Well, what do you think?"

The dark-haired boy stares at the scene in front of him and raises an incredulous eyebrow. "I think… it looked much nicer in the brochure."

His companion opens the brochure in question to compare, then makes a noise of unimpressed assent. "However," he says, "according to this, the bedrock beneath Lake Acuity contains many rare metals, which have compressed over hundreds of years to create a foundation as hard as diamond! Also, many extraordinary gems have been unearthed along the bank of Lake Acuity, including the… Brendan? Are you listening?"

But Brendan is already walking away, shaking his head bemusedly. Their upcoming trip to Iron Island is sure to be a tiring one…


End file.
